Jake let out a big breath, like he’d been holding it the entire time we’d been sitting there. “Hope everyone’s okay,” he croaked, voice rusty.
“Yeah,” said Hector.
I bit the inside of my cheek and swiped my sweating hands on the towel for the thousandth time. Having the sirens gone was a relief, but now it was
too
quiet.
“What happens next?” My own voice sounded gravelly and rough. No one had an answer.
“I mean, we can’t just go on with the competition, can we?”
“We can.” All of us turned to find a pale, exhausted-looking AJ. “Meeting behind bus two in ten minutes,” he said, and moved on to the next group.
“What is this, a ‘show must go on’ moment?” I blurted. “Those kids got
hurt
.” This would end their season. And, I thought sadly, they’d lose their Darcy’s parade spot.
“And they were here to perform,” Jake gently reminded me. “That’s what we do. Some of the groups have traveled a long way to be here.”
I didn’t like what he was saying, and, apparently, neither did Sarah. She turned around and started sniffling, but didn’t speak. Hector stood up and stretched, then he shook his head, shrugged, and just walked away.
A few minutes later we joined the whole ensemble. Everyone looked worn—pale, sad, and just wiped out. Especially Punk, without his facial piercings. Their absence made him look like a boy instead of a rocked-out upperclassman. Seeing him like that unnerved me almost as much as the accident. I put my mellophone down and wrapped my arms around my body.
“It’s been a tough day,” AJ started. “And that’s an understatement.” He paused, trying to find the right words for the group. “I don’t have magic words to make us feel better. That was pretty awful and scary. A lot of our guys stepped up to help the Minutemen out, and you made us proud.” Mr. Sebastian stood to the side, letting AJ lead us.
“The field show competition hasn’t been canceled. Several groups have traveled from out of state to be here, and the judges felt that it wouldn’t be fair to close the whole competition. They are giving the bands the option as to whether or not to perform tonight. I think we should be out there. The Minutemen are from our part of the state, and they’re tough competitors. They worked hard to prepare their show, and so did we. We can honor them by taking the field, putting on our best show, and respecting the work that we do.
“It’ll be hard, and I know a lot of us are totally upset by what we saw today.” Was he looking directly at me when he said that part? “So I understand if you don’t feel up to it. We’re going to vote. If the Screaming Hellcats are going to take the field,
you
need to want it—not because I want to or anyone else thinks we should. So, show of hands: Who wants to perform?”
For a second, no one moved. Not one hand went up. Then, from the drum line, a few hands crept to the sky.
“We’ve been prepping since August. The Minutemen would want us to bring it,” someone said.
That did it. All around me, hands reached up. Mine was still firmly at my side. How could we do this? How could
I
do this? Just the thought of getting out there, behind my instrument, made my insides watery.
Behind my instrument. That was the one place that I’d always been able to express my emotions. And blowing my face off tonight, surrounded by the people I was starting to see as real friends, would make me feel better. Before I could think about my decision—or that I was mentally referring to the once-hateful mellophone as “my instrument”—my hand shot to the sky. AJ gave me a big smile.
“Sweet. We’re on at eight thirty. Be in uniform by seven fifteen. Dismissed.”
17
The next couple of hours flew by. Jake pulled a Frisbee out of his bag and pulled together a game of Ultimate. When he came over to me, expression hopeful, I shook my head.
“Too much work,” I explained. It bummed me out to say no to him for the zillionth time, but what else could I do? I was swamped. Hector, Sarah, Steve, and the others all joined the game, of course, leaving me alone by the buses.
I managed to read some of
Emma
(why does that girl feel the need to mess with everyone else’s love life?)
,
answered a couple of history questions, and even jotted some halfhearted notes for bio. The one thing I
wanted
to do? Practice for Shining Birches. But my French horn was at home—and even if I did have it, my mouth was still buzzy-feeling from the morning’s parade, and I had to save my chops for the field show competition.
A little before seven, just as the sky was starting to turn pink, Sarah and I grabbed our uniform bags from the bus and got dressed again. She seemed much happier—maybe all that running around during Ultimate Frisbee helped her out?
The band assembled in front of the buses, and we lined up in parade formation again. We had to march from the parking lot to the outside of the community college stadium across the street. My parents would be in the stands. They’d skipped the morning’s parade because my dad was subbing for a friend on
Wicked
’s matinee. I wondered if they knew about the collapse.
We marched over to just drum ticks, no cadence. Everyone’s faces were set and solemn. There was none of the excitement or anxiety that came before the parade competition that morning. Instead, the overwhelming feeling was of determination. In spite of what happened, standing next to Steve and Punk made me feel strong.
The sun had almost totally gone down, and the lower half of the sky was a deep navy blue; above it was indigo. We stopped and did a low, slow warm-up, then got back in formation and waited to be introduced. Out of respect for the Minutemen, AJ didn’t call out any of the Hellcats’ pre-performance goofy chants or cheers, which only added to the strange, surreal feeling I had. It was like being part of a different group.
“From Auburnville, Massachusetts, we are proud to present the Screaming Hellcats of Henry Herbert High. They will be performing their field show, music from
West Side Story
. Welcome, Hellcats!” Applause poured from the crowd.
We marched in during the introduction, and were now set in our positions to take the field. I took a second to glance around the stadium.
It was packed.
From my perspective, it looked like every seat was filled. Smaller bands who had already marched and were still dressed in uniform sat on one set of bleachers, but the rest of the stands were stuffed with spectators. Parents, kids, band staff, community members—there had to have been over a thousand people up there. This was, by far, the largest audience I’d ever played in front of.
My respectful mood disappeared, replaced by excitement and a thrill of fear. AJ counted off and we took our spots on the field. On his podium, his white uniform contrasting with our black ones, he looked militarysharp.
“One! Two! One-two-three!” he shouted, and we played.
The sound filled me like it had on the first day of band camp, its power taking me by surprise. I almost forgot to step off.
I marched across the field, playing my part, moving smoothly to my first spot. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that my line was perfectly straight. We stepped off into the next set as a unit. The flags spun and floated past us, every girl in color guard making her spins and working in perfect unison. Sarah would be psyched. I stopped thinking, letting my body carry me through the show while I played my instrument.
During the final number, “Somewhere,” we marched a company front, shoulder to shoulder. I felt locked in with the whole ensemble, pushing our wall of sound straight at the audience, trying to knock AJ off his podium with what came out of my bell. The hair on my arms stood straight up and I had chills.
Our last note resonated across the field.
The crowd roared over the ringing in my ears.
On the sidelines, we jumped up and down and hugged one another.
“Freakin’
awesome
!” Punk cheered.
“Whoo! High brass rules!” screamed Steve.
Shouts and whoops echoed through the band. AJ came over for high fives. “Incredible! You guys nearly took me out during that company front!” He laughed. “Elsie, I thought you were going to knock me over with what was coming out of your bell!”
I beamed.
We didn’t have a ton of time for celebrating, though, as we had to watch the two bands scheduled to perform after us. The Minutemen were supposed to have gone on last, and when it was their turn, the announcers came on and asked for a moment of silence and for our prayers to go out to those band members and their families. I wondered how the kids were doing, and if we’d find out.
Then all of the bands returned to the field. We stood in clumps according to our size and performance category while they gave out the awards.
For the parade competition, we hadn’t placed in our category. The Marching Minutemen, however, had—they took first. The stadium erupted in huge cheers for them.
Then it was time for field show. I fidgeted as they worked their way through the two categories below us. They reached our group and I held my breath.
“Third place, with a score of eighty-nine point three, are the Dover Dolphins!” On our left, a band from New Hampshire started screaming. Their drum major stepped forward and saluted the judges before taking the trophy.
The judge returned to the podium.
“Second place, with a score of ninety point one, the Reading Rockets!” My breath wooshed out. Two down.
“And in first place, with a score of ninety point four,” the judge began. I couldn’t inhale again, just stood, not breathing, clutching Sarah’s and Hector’s hands, “the Screaming Hellcats of—” but I didn’t hear any more. A scream bomb went off all around me. Hector pulled Sarah and me into a group hug.
We won! By three tenths of a point!!
I screamed too.
18
My parents found me back at the buses and congratulated me. My mom was weepy—the same way she gets every time I perform. Dad was his typical reserved self, but something seemed a little different about him. And honestly, I didn’t really care what it was. I was too busy checking out our shiny new trophy, squirting Silly String and dodging Silly String squirted at me (someone had thoughtfully packed an Emergency Celebration Kit) to care.
Mom and Dad hovered around the band parents, who made sure that we’d properly packed our uniforms before the stringy celebration began. Then, as I was standing with Steve and Punk, reliving the show for the zillionth time, my dad approached.
“We really need to get going, Elsie,” he said. “Mom and I will wait while you say your good-byes.”
I was confused. “What do you mean, you’ll wait?”
Steve gave me a quick hug and Punk slapped high fives with me, then they edged away. Dad’s face was red.
“Please get your things and we can walk over to the car together.”
Huh?
Then I realized—my father thought I was going to ride home with him and Mom! Uh, no way.
“I’m taking the bus back,” I explained.
“I’m going to speak with Mr. Sebastian about it now. Please go get your things,” he repeated.
My post-victory glow dimmed like a disappearing ghost.
“But I
want
to take the bus,” I said, trying to stay calm. Didn’t he get it? There’d be celebrating, and cheering, and passing the trophy around. I wanted to be there for that. To be part of it.
“I’m sure you do. But you’ll see your friends on Monday,” he said in his clipped “this discussion is over” voice. I looked around for Mom, who gave me a sympathetic smile.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” she said. “There’ll be other opportunities to celebrate.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Get your things,” Dad ordered.
“But Steve would be—”
Dad cut me off.
“Get your things and let’s go.”
“Fine.” I turned and stomped away, tears stinging my eyes. He was cutting my celebration short! Okay, we hadn’t just played Wagner’s Ring Cycle or gotten off the stage at the Met, but this was a big deal to me.
I slammed up the bus stairs, making as much noise as I could, and grabbed my bag, hatbox, and instrument. This was
so
not fair. Other kids’ parents were letting them take the bus home. Why couldn’t I? And why hadn’t Mom and Dad thought to mention this game-changer before I left?
I stood on the blacktop outside of the bus, clutching my stuff, fuming and halfheartedly searching for my mom and dad. I spotted them over by Mr. Sebastian and the band parents, then took my time getting there. I didn’t want to go around and say good-bye to everyone, making it totally obvious that I was leaving early.
As I approached, I heard my dad saying, “Since we drove out here for the competition, it only makes sense that she come home with us directly instead of us having to meet the bus at school. And we feel that it’s just too much responsibility for a student driver, especially after dark. It’s not safe.”
I stood stock-still.
What?! What?!
They were taking me home because it was
too much trouble for them
for me to ride home on the bus? And too dangerous to be with Steve? That it was
unsafe
? What did they think was going to happen?
“Are you kidding me ?” I snapped, startling the entire group.
“Oh, honey,” my mom said, “don’t be upset. It’s not like that.” She must have seen the anger in my expression, because she stepped back. Mr. Sebastian and the band parents moved away to give my family fight some privacy.
“You are making me come home with you because it’s too much trouble for you if I take the bus home? That it’s dangerous for me to ride with Steve?! Are you
crazy
?” I yelled directly at my dad, in front of all those people, and the worst part was, I couldn’t stop myself.
“Not crazy. I’m your father,” he snapped back. “Just in case you’ve forgotten your relations as well as your manners, Elsie. Do not be disrespectful.”